The afternoon sun scorched the earth. Inside and outside Harrenhal, two fierce competitions began simultaneously.
On the vast plains outside the castle, the horse race kicked off first.
Three hundred riders set off at once. They had to gallop from the starting line to a designated point at the far end of the God's Eye, retrieve a banner bearing the nine bats of House Whent, then circle the entire lake and finally return to the starting point outside Harrenhal.
This contest tested not only the speed and endurance of the horses but also the riders' route selection and horsemanship.
However, only the first ten to return would qualify for the next round.
Meanwhile, inside the castle, the one-on-one melee was underway, blades clashing and steel ringing.
Because of the scheduling conflict, Euron had to regrettably forego the horse race. Otherwise, with the divine speed and explosive power of his horse, Farul, taking the crown in that event wouldn't have been impossible.
At this moment, Euron stood on the sands of the melee arena. His first opponent was a wandering mercenary—Bronn. This man was known for his agility and light feet, elusive as a shadow, always able to dodge fatal attacks with nimble steps at critical moments.
But the corner of Euron's mouth curled into an imperceptible smile. The type of opponent he feared least was exactly this kind—the one who relied on speed.
Because on this continent, almost no one could be faster than the technique from another world—[Marine Six Styles: Shave]!
The result was foregone.
After dozens of dazzling exchanges of steel, Euron seized a fleeting opening. His body surged forward like a ghost!
In the next second, Bronn's sword hit the ground. Euron had planted both feet firmly on Bronn's hands, crouching on top of him, completely suppressing any possibility of a counterattack. At the same time, the cold long blade in Euron's hand hovered precisely between Bronn's eyebrows. If Bronn swallowed too hard, his skin would likely feel the sting of the blade tip.
Bronn was an extremely pragmatic mercenary. He immediately ceased all resistance and spoke very crisply: "I yield."
Hearing this, Euron sheathed his blade cleanly, his movements fluid and cold.
Bronn scrambled up from the ground, patted off the dust, and even managed to squeeze out a professional smile, his tone carrying a trace of relief at having survived. "Thank you, my Lord, for sparing my life."
Euron only glanced at him indifferently. His voice held no emotion, only a pure, almost cruel pragmatism. "I didn't spare you out of mercy. My blade just happened to stop at that distance. If necessary for victory, I wouldn't mind adding your soul to the count under my blade."
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The real main event began as night fell completely—the bloody and brutal seven-sided team melee.
This was not an elegant duel between knights, but a miniature battlefield bound by strict rules. Compared to real war, it only limited the number of participants to one hundred per side and strictly forbade the use of shields. Aside from that, the slaughter and death were no different.
Blades would slice through flesh, war hammers would shatter bone, and shouts and wails would weave into a primal symphony.
The massive arena was lit by braziers and torches, looking like the entrance to hell. Seven teams representing different powers stood ready at the edges like tides about to collide.
Besides the Ironborn team led by Euron, there were the Dornishmen led by Prince Oberyn Martell, the elites of House Tyrell from Highgarden, the soldiers of House Frey from the Crossing, the knights of the Vale from the Eyrie, the Lannister troops from the Westerlands, and the notorious Second Sons mercenary company.
Seven powers, seven hundred warriors, were about to unleash a ruthless brawl in this designated killing field for glory, gold, or survival.
Night hung low. The melee grounds outside Harrenhal were lit as bright as day by countless torches. The air was thick with tension and bloodlust. The hundred-man Ironborn squad gathered in one spot for their final pre-battle council.
Balon Greyjoy looked around at the warriors who were about to fight by his side. Suddenly, he burst into rough laughter, his voice booming like a bell. "Eat your fill! Drink up! Stuff your bellies with wine and meat! Who knows, this might be our last meal!"
Euron shot him an annoyed glare. "Can't you spit out anything pleasant for once?"
Just then, the Red Viper of Dorne, Oberyn Martell, strolled over to the Ironborn tent with a few of his trusted men. Wearing his trademark cynical smile, he cut straight to the chase. "Euron, in chaos, the lone wolf dies easily. Let's join forces at the start, sweep away the trash that gets in the way, and then... settle the score between us at the end. How about it?"
Euron nodded calmly, unsurprised. "Agreed. But until only the Iron Islands and Dorne remain on the field, neither side stabs the other in the back."
The Red Viper chuckled and extended his hand. "Naturally. I, Oberyn, still have that much honor."
Two hands clasped heavily in the air. A brief and dangerous alliance was formed.
The sky was lit by torchlight. In the glow, Euron could see his fiancée, Ashara, tightly holding her brother Arthur's hand. Arianne and Elia were beside them, all wearing tense expressions and furrowed brows.
The horn signaling the start of the match was like a spark thrown into boiling oil, instantly igniting the entire battlefield! Almost immediately, driven by pre-battle calculations and old grudges, the seven teams split into four distinct battle groups.
The warriors of the Iron Islands and Dorne quickly moved together, forming an unbreakable alliance to face threats from all sides.
On the other side, the soldiers of House Tyrell and House Frey joined forces without hesitation.
The Freys' eyes were vicious, locking dead onto Euron Greyjoy. They had received a death order from their lord: ignore everything else in this battle, but prioritizing the slaughter of the Ironborn is a must, especially taking Euron's head at any cost! Meanwhile, the knights of Highgarden poured their burning rage against Dorne into their blades. Their heir, Willas Tyrell, had been crippled by Prince Oberyn, and the maesters had diagnosed that Willas would be lame for life!
The allied forces of the Vale and the Westerlands unanimously turned their blades toward the isolated Second Sons.
On this rapidly changing, brutal battlefield, forming alliances and prioritizing the elimination of the weak were the most basic rules.
The Vale-Lannister alliance unhesitatingly chose a two-on-one strategy, targeting the relatively isolated Second Sons—the widely recognized "soft target."
They also secretly hoped that the two sides about to clash elsewhere would decimate each other, allowing them to reap the benefits later.
Though the mercenaries of the Second Sons were outnumbered two to one, each wore a look of fierce determination, showing no fear. They had foreseen this fate of being targeted before the match and were prepared to fight to the death.
Euron quickly whispered to the Red Viper beside him, "We Ironborn will take the Freys. You Dornishmen hold off the Tyrells! Once we're done, I'll bring my men to support you immediately!"
Prince Oberyn scoffed, twirling his spear. "You help me!? Hah, worry about yourself first. Don't die at the hands of those mad Frey dogs! The way they look at you, it's like they want to bite a chunk of meat off you even if they die!"
"Likewise!" Euron retorted unceremoniously. "The Tyrells want nothing more than to cut off the 'Viper's' tail to avenge the Highgarden heir lying in bed!"
While the two were still trading barbs and pressure, Balon Greyjoy could no longer suppress the murderous intent boiling in his chest. His massive battle axe slammed into the ground with a dull thud as he let out a deafening roar: "Kill! Enough talk! Slaughter those Frey bastards!"
His roar was the horn of attack, instantly igniting the berserk fighting spirit of the Ironborn warriors!
The battle was joined. The Ironborn-Dornish alliance clashed violently with the Tyrell-Frey coalition.
The battlefield was instantly torn into two main melees: the Ironborn warriors surged like a grey tide straight at House Frey of the Crossing; the Dornish spears and curved blades struck out like vipers, precisely meeting the Rose Knights of Highgarden.
This was a bloody massacre with no room for negotiation, not a tournament.
Rules were thrown to the wind. Here, unless one voluntarily fled the designated boundary, there was no mercy—even for those heavily injured and down on the ground. Cold steel would deliver a fatal blow without hesitation to ensure they never rose again.
The soldiers of House Frey were not weak; they were well-trained and well-equipped. But today, they faced an Ironborn elite force that had been transformed.
This was thanks to two extraordinary instructors Euron had found for them. One was the Water Dancer master from Braavos, Raphael, who taught these Ironborn—accustomed to fighting on decks—how to use more agile, erratic footwork, making their attacks as unpredictable as the waves. The other was the exiled Dothraki, former Khal Vittorio Grey, who had deeply branded the wild, violent curved blade techniques of the grasslands and the fearless will to charge into the souls of the Ironborn warriors.
These two distinct fighting styles merged perfectly within the Ironborn, turning into a terrifying storm of oceanic unpredictability and grassland ferocity that the Freys had never encountered!
What terrified the Frey soldiers even more—to the point of shattering their spirits—was the utter fearlessness of death rooted in the Ironborn blood and culture!
The Freys, who hailed from the Crossing, whose sigil was the Twin Towers, and who had lived for generations on collecting tolls—pampered, knowing only schemes and bullying the weak—could not comprehend the Ironborn who lived on the barren, cold rocks. They could not understand the cruel law of survival where one had to risk their life against the sea and enemies just to eat and keep warm, nor the near-mad bravery born from it!
As their leader's head was split open by a heavy blow from Balon Greyjoy's axe, the Frey morale collapsed instantly. The remaining soldiers, terrified, abandoned all honor. They threw down their helmets and armor, desperate to flee this bloody slaughterhouse.
Red-eyed with bloodlust, Balon roared and wanted to pursue, intending to slaughter every last routing soldier.
Euron raised his hand sharply, stopping his brother. "Enough, Balon!" His voice was calm, completely at odds with the surrounding frenzy. "Countless eyes are watching from all around. They have chosen to flee the battlefield. If we hunt them down to the last man now, it will only give the lords of the Seven Kingdoms cause to denounce the Iron Islands as bloodthirsty savages with no honor."